


Predicament

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6405289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he didn't know better, he'd assume Bubonic had orchestrated the whole thing, that it was a set up rather than an unofficial undercover job gone spectacularly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predicament

**Author's Note:**

> prompts: creeper, handcuffs, mind-games
> 
> Thanks to glitterburn for the beta! :)

 

 

"Hello, Tommy." 

Tommy startles at the sound, cursing under his breath. The familiarity of the soft, amused voice grates on his nerves. Against his better judgement, he once again pulls at the handcuffs, but like all the times before, there's no give – all it achieves is to cut deeper into his wrists, the bed frame sturdy and unmovable, made for this kind of thing. 

"Looks like you got yourself into quite the predicament." Bubonic steps closer, and Tommy wonders if he can get a good kick in. At least his legs aren't tied up. Small mercies. If he didn't know better, he'd assume Bubonic had orchestrated the whole thing, that it was a set up rather than an unofficial undercover job gone spectacularly wrong. 

He grinds his teeth. "Yeah, I bet this is like Christmas come early for you." The sharpness he wants to put into his tone won't come, mouth cotton-ball dry and his words slurred from whatever drug his mark shot him up with.

He jerks away when Bubonic reaches out and trails a finger down Tommy's side. His entire skin, head to toes, feels like it's on fire – and the touch, light as it is, only serves in making it worse. It's painful, but not quite. Too much and nowhere near enough all at once. He's been hard for a while, the drug hitting his blood stream fast and mercilessly, but it was bearable as long as he was alone in the room, distracted by plotting how to get out. 

Now, with another warm body so close, with the slightest touch burning him alive, the aching pressure of his cock straining against his boxers is suddenly impossible to ignore. 

Bubonic chuckles, and his hand brushes the outside of Tommy's thigh, from the leg seam of his boxers down to his knee. "Why, Tommy. Such an interesting reaction."

Embarrassment and arousal turn into a vicious circle. Trapped in the handcuffs, Tommy's hands ball into fists, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he takes several deep breaths to steady himself, cursing this day and his stupidity to get caught like this and the man in front of him. 

"Go to hell," he mutters, but his voice breaks on the last word when nimble fingers trace the outline of his cock through the tenting black cotton of his boxers, dancing over it with the deftness and effortless confidence as if he was operating a keyboard.

"I'm in a good mood, Detective, so I'll do you a favor." He leans in close – close enough that Tommy could grab him and pull the stupid mask off if his hands were free. As it is, Tommy focuses on the eyes beneath the mask, pale blue and sharp, the amusement of his tone not quite reflecting there. 

Bubonic's right hand is still tracing invisible patterns on his body, fingers trailing up his torso, nails lightly scratching over a nipple, thumb dipping into the hollow of his throat – the threat implied despite the lack of pressure. Tommy wants him to stop and get away from him. He wants him to scrap the teasing and put his hand back where Tommy needs it most. He wants – He doesn't fucking know what he wants, can't _think_ with the drug clouding his mind and making his blood boil, with Bubonic's touch sending his nerve-ends into overdrive.

A single finger meanders along the underside of his arm, following the strained muscles to where Tommy's tied up. Tommy hisses at the hint of a nail scraping against the sore, bruised lines the handcuffs have left. "I can help you get out of these or..." Abruptly, the hand travels down south the way it came before sneaking underneath the waistband of Tommy's boxers, closing firmly around his cock. The touch feels searing, and for a moment, Tommy _can't breathe_. His vision whites out. A groan escapes his throat, guttural and anguished. 

"Or I could get you off." He hears Bubonic's voice as if through a wall of static. "Your choice. But it's only gonna be one."

If he were in his right mind, the absolute smugness of that tone would make the rage swell inside of him like a crimson sunrise. If he were in his right mind, the choice would be easy: get out of the cuffs, arrest the little shit, and then duck into the bathroom to take care of his little problem. 

The worst part is that, even through the haze of drugs and lust, even with the unwanted and yet not entirely unwelcome stimulation, he _knows_ all this. His mind is clear enough to draw the line of what he should and shouldn't do, but the hand gripping his cock, casually teasing the sensitive head until he's toeing the fine line between pain and pleasure, feels too good, and when he opens his mouth, the insistent, broken " _Please_ " that comes out isn't a request to be freed.

"Care to elaborate?" Bubonic asks without stilling his hand. Like he doesn't know exactly what Tommy's asking for, like he's not just doing it to rub the humiliation in further. Below the mask, Tommy spots his lips giving a little twitch.

He bucks his hips up, more involuntary movement than deliberate response. "Stop the damn teasing and do it already, asshole," he grinds out, and if it's frustration rather than righteous anger prompting the outburst, no one ever has to know.

Bubonic cocks his head, smirk growing wider. "Do you think that's smart, insulting the guy who quite literally has you by the balls?" As if to make a point, his fingers curve lower, his grip not yet punishing, but insistent.

Tommy swallows, arching his neck back until his arms strain, pretending that when his legs spread further to give the other man better access that it's an unconscious action. The fingers are back on his cock, now slick with precum, setting a rhythm that drives the air out of Tommy's lungs. His eyes keep fluttering shut, but he tries to keep them open, unwilling to give Bubonic that kind of advantage, that kind of implicit _trust_ , not when he already has the upper hand in all the ways that count. 

Submission was never something Tommy got off on before, so perhaps it's just the drug pumping through his veins, or the way the man before him seems utterly in control and unruffled except for the way his pupils are blown wide, swallowing the blue of his eyes. Perhaps it's because some part of him always knew the little cat-and-mouse game Bubonic had been playing with him would one day come to a head, anticipated it, even if he didn't expect it to be quite like this, with him handcuffed to a bed in a seedy sex club and Bubonic standing over him with a hand moving up and down his achingly hard cock.

He feels like he's running a fever, like there's fire sizzling inside his veins that burns him from the inside and will leave nothing but ashes in its wake. And still, he wants, wants, wants.

"Fuck me. Please. I need –" He stops himself before he can say that he needs more than just the firm grip of a hand, needs the burn at the breach of the first push inside, needs to be _filled_. 

There's a moment when he thinks Bubonic looks tempted, when he bites his lips and his eyes reflect the need that's burning up Tommy, but then he shakes his head. 

"Nope, sorry. Not today."

His voice sounds a little strained though, belying the casual dismissal, as if it wouldn't take much to convince him. Tommy's tempted to push it. Wants to point out that "not today" with its implication of further encounters is being optimistic, that there's no way this is happening again when Tommy's not high as a kite on some stimulating drug. The thought is enough to shut him up because if he's not willing to do this sober, then perhaps he shouldn't ask to be fucked in the first place.

Maybe it's written all over his face, or maybe Bubonic just knows him too well, because his smile turns cruel. "Of course, in a little while, you wouldn't even want me to. You're going to hate yourself for letting this happen and you're never going to forgive yourself for giving in to me just so easily, especially when you knew you could have walked free instead."

He gives Tommy's cock a couple of vicious strokes in time with his words before he slips his hand further down, running two fingers along the sensitive strip of skin behind his balls, pushing against his hole just so that it's only pressure and not quite intrusion. And it's enough – the merciless tease, the control, the hint of promise. Tommy comes inside his boxers, sticky warmth everywhere, a low moan torn from his lips.

He doesn't black out, but it's a close thing, the white-hot pleasure like a wall he finds himself slammed against, catching his breath while his heart races. 

It takes a moment until he finds his bearings again, until he can focus on what's going on around him, and that's enough time for Bubonic to have stepped back, putting a distance between them that could be considered safe, perhaps. 

"Well, Tommy, I can't say that I expected the evening to go like this, but it was fun. We have to do that again sometime." He's wiping his hands with a bunch of Kleenex from the bedside table. "Since you were such a good boy, why don't I give your boss a heads-up about your whereabouts? I'm sure Cyber Crimes' finest will come to your rescue in no time."

He throws the used tissue at Tommy before he can come up with a clever response. 

"See you around, Detective."

End.

**Author's Note:**

> ( _Bonus ending that didn't quite make it into the prompt fill because I rather preferred to have Bubonic keep the upper hand:_
> 
> "How about a new deal?" Tommy calls out when Bubonic already has his hand on the door handle. His senses feel sharper already, the hazy softness clouding his mind and the insistent, all-consuming need from before gone, leaving behind just a faint trace of low-level arousal, no more than an echo. And still, Bubonic's words from earlier still ring in his ears, and he wants to spite him. More than that, he wants to make him come apart at the seams, wants to shatter that calm confidence until there's nothing left of it, until he's as overwhelmed with desire as Tommy was. 
> 
> "I return the favor and you help me get out of here." He pointedly lets his eyes rest on the tight stretch of denim at the other man's groin before giving him a provocative half-smile. He stretches out, feeling almost relaxed despite the uncomfortable position of his hands and the way the cuffs keep cutting off the circulation.
> 
> "I don't think so," Bubonic says, but he's not out of the door yet, and Tommy counts that as a win. "Unlike you, I have both my hands free to take care of the matter myself." Despite his protests, he seems taken aback. The way he wets his lips betrays his uneasiness. Tommy's not freaking out like he should, and that's clearly not something he'd planned for. Good. 
> 
> It's not easy to pull off a shrug with your hands tied above your head, but Tommy manages. "Sure, but why settle for your hands when you can have my mouth?"
> 
> Bubonic doesn't say anything, but he takes a step back into the room, and Tommy figures he probably won't have to worry about having to explain to the Sergeant why he's handcuffed and covered in jizz after all. _Gotcha._
> 
> )


End file.
